The supermen


Semitic supermen, soldiers
with little machines
that tick at the click of command,
soar high above the sites of sorrow
where dark dreams of fire die
to the tune of fiendish wings.

Even small birds have cannons,
burning bushes
with gloomy berries of ash
throw no light
on bones and ruins,
on the nightmare of destruction.

Finally the moon fell backward
into a starry patio
where power was secluded.
Dust and debris
flew like broken doves,
there was no god.

Then there were houses
distorted into burning ovens
turning families to crisp,
there was anticipation
hanging in the sky
all night long.




Poetry by Bob
Read 566 times
Written on 2009-01-16 at 07:47

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Aisha Razem
Bob

(((( Oh My..... what a disruption of my heart in the word's truth by a poet !!! put me in the sky searching the moon who may be still zipped in his sleeping bag. or God who love and praise the tidied up souls in this Semitic soldier 's trigger, in fake in fake in fake claims of preferable land or paradise on cemetery of optimistic hearts !!!

it is firm Firm and high shouting fact

God the same one

Bless

..........

Aisha
2009-01-16


Purple Phoenix
Wow! So well written... and a little close to home. The edges of my home town is smouldering after three days of uncontainable bushfires. Luckily, my house was left intact but others weren't so fortunate. I was looking at all that blackened twisted metal again in my mind reading this... There is beauty in your words even in a warzone, well done.
2009-01-16